


Good Time Charlie

by kesomon



Category: Bumblebee (2018), Transformers (Bay Movies)
Genre: Blood and Injury, Fluff, Humor, Platonic Female/Male Relationships, Trolling, ambiguous timeline
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-01-17
Updated: 2019-01-29
Packaged: 2019-10-10 20:06:53
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 4,517
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17432678
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kesomon/pseuds/kesomon
Summary: Sam and the Bots need a place to lay low. Bumblebee's got a friend in mind.(Open for adoption in my Concepts box but continued on my own as well.)





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Pulling this out of my Concepts box to continue it, even though it is still open for adoption from the initial ficlet.
> 
> The premise: Bumblebee (2018) post-movie AU, crossing over with vague characters/events of the TF franchise (of which I only really saw the first two movies), also proposing Bumblebee is a prequel to the existing franchise and otherwise ignoring everything canon, including any sense of timelines and which bots are being used. 
> 
> For now I'm ignoring anything but the first Transformers movie. So the Optimus Bee was talking to at the end of Bumblebee (2018) was a hologram, the bots arrived when they did in Sam's time but as 2019 instead of 2007 (so I can use whatever radio quotes I damn well please), Mission City happened, Jazz didn't die, other bots made it to Earth, NEST was formed, and yet the whole thing was swept under the rug and so the general public knows nothing about the existence of giant robot fights.
> 
> This isn't so much a solidified plot as much as interconnected ficlets for the purpose of crossing over Bumblebee and Transformers characters.

In the aftermath of the conflict, there wasn't a soul among them, bot or human, who wasn't tired, dirty, and damaged. Optimus looked over his mechs, battered and worn; from Jazz leaning heavily against Prowl, optics shuttered, to the way Ironhide was holding his cannons gingerly, the near-dislocation of his arm clearly paining him. Ratchet was busy fixing up a for-once silent Sunstreaker, his twin hovering anxiously nearby. Even Arcee, who had taken lookout duty, hadn't come through unscathed.

Lennox and the others of NEST weren't any better. The commander of their human allies was in quiet conference with his 2IC, knee elevated carefully with a compression bandage and blood drying at his temple. Sam was sprawled in the dirt against Bumblebee's front tire, inspecting scraped-raw palms; the youngest mech of their group was in alt-mode out of sheer exhaustion, no energy to bother transforming to his root form.

"We need a place to regroup," Optimus decided aloud. "Somewhere safe."

"Somewhere close," Ratchet amended him. "We can't move some of our injured far. I wish Red Alert were here, I could use a second pair of hands."

Bumblebee's shocks rocked his front end upward and the young scout gave a considering chatter-trill of basic Cybertronian. (Sam always laughed at it, saying with his color scheme he was almost like BB-8. It took a movie marathon of science fiction before the Autobots realized correcting the human's knowledge of B-127's designation wasn't necessary.) Then, for the human's benefit, the scout's radio cycled through a bevy of programs, piecing together an English repeat of the message.

" _Don't worry, be happy // 'Take Cover!' // 'You think we need one more. All right, we'll get one more'._ "

"You have an idea, Bumblebee?" Sam, their resident expert in social media slang, translated it first.

Bee bounced on his shocks and his radio blatted a perfect " _Beep-boo-bree-oo_ ," of BB-8's agreement-noise, then a song-snippet from an old Disney film. " _Talkin' about, Charlie, good-time Charlie, everybody's friend!_ "

"Who's Charlie?" Lennox, ever the wary soldier. "Civilian?"

Bee whirred at him in the way they had come to translate as admonishment, and his radio cycled again. " _Charlie, everybody's friend || If you're lost you can look and you will find me || I'm a love mechanic, yeah, I've got just what you need._ "

"A mechanic?" Ratchet perked up, and looked to Optimus. "As good as we can get right now, especially if they know Bumblebee already."

"I agree," Optimus nodded. "Bumblebee, this is the human you mentioned in your transmission 30 stellar cycles ago? Are you certain they will be open to assisting us?"

" _You've got a friend in me || you can count on me like one two three,_ " the scout confirmed, with an added, " _Every step you take, I'll be watching you._ "

"That's kinda creepy, Bee," Sam teased.

Optimus wasn't surprised the scout had kept track of the first human he'd ever met. "Do you have a current location?"

Bee gave a confirming whistle that sounded like R2-D2, pinging their phones and comms with GPS coordinates. It wasn't far to go at all.

"All right. Autobots, roll out. Bumblebee, you take point."

"' _Roger roger',_ " agreed the monotone-voice of a Phantom Menace droid as Bee's door opened for Sam, making the human contingent chuckle as they hauled their weary selves to their feet and loaded up. Optimus took to alt-form, allowing Ratchet to load Sunstreaker into the trailer.

Like a strange convoy, the group set off, following on a suddenly-energized yellow scout's tailpipe.

"So who _is_ Charlie," Sam asked, in the privacy of Bumblebee's cabin as they glided over California's wind-pitted pavement.

Bee warbled a moment, and his radio pieced together a proper, lilting sentence. " _'She gave me || back || MY || voice || a long time ago'._ "

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chp1 Radio credits:  
> \- don't worry, be happy: song  
> \- Take cover: I'm sure someone on the radio has said this before.  
> \- We'll get one more: Ocean's 11  
> \- BB-8/droid noises: Star Wars  
> \- good time charlie: opening song from a very cute old Disney live-action film called Good Time Charlie. It was about a pet cougar in a logging camp.  
> \- lost and can look: song, time after time  
> \- love mechanic: song  
> \- you've got a friend in me: song  
> \- you can count on me: song, Bruno Mars  
> \- every step: song


	2. Chapter 2

The junkyard had been there forever.

In the 80's it had simply been _Hank's Automotive Repair and Scrap_ , namesake of the owner-operator on site. It was here that fate had intertwined the lives of one human girl and one amnesiac Cybertronian, when old Hank gifted young Charlie Watson with a run-down, salvaged Volkswagen Beetle.

That was then.

After the army had left her family alone, compensated and black-flagged in the archives of Sector 7, Charlie had gone back to Hank's, intent on pulling her life in a new direction. With no family to speak of and getting on in years, Hank had taken the young Watson girl under his wing, until she had learned enough to practically run the joint.

When he retired from the scrapyard, hands too arthritic to hold a wrench any longer, that's just what he willed.

So Charlie Watson became the owner-operator of one _Hank's Automotive Repair and Scrap,_ and her best friend Michael Morrison, aka "Memo", ran the logistics and accounting. Eventually,  _Hank's_ became  _Honeycomb Mechanics_ , and subtle changes had taken place that to an outside perspective made little sense.

There was simply no reason, for instance, to have such high ceilings, almost two stories tall, in an otherwise normal repair bay. Or for that repair bay to have a catwalk of lofts around the edges at differing heights, not just one floating second floor. Or why the few acres of land that surrounded the junkyard had been bought up, cleared of crushed cars and old boats, and fenced in for privacy, not protection; no barbed wire, just tall, solid slats difficult to climb or snoop.

Charlie never explained the changes, only grinned in the way she did, like she had a secret she would never share, except with Memo, who always responded to such outsider's questions with a look of fond exasperation and no real answers.

Only Charlie's brother Otis could be made to talk, and all he would admit to is what Charlie had told him: it was built as a memory, and a hope, and a wish all in one.

 

Precious little of this information was available to Major Lennox, who had taken the opportunity of riding shotgun in Ironhide's cab to dig into the available Sector 7 files on the person they were going to meet.

Charlotte "Charlie" Watson. Age: 18, as of the incident report. She'd be in her late 40's now. The photograph that was attached was yellowed with age and out of date, framing a dark-haired young woman in a rock band t-shirt and coveralls, with the rebellious look of a teenager who did not want to be photographed but had no choice in the matter.

The name was listed as NBE Contact: 1st class, 1987, involvement level 7; the same level as Mikaela, Lennox noted, who had been adjacent to the events at Hoover Dam and in Mission City, but had the opportunity to walk away, after signing a truckload of NDAs. (Not that she had. But her clearance remained the same, regardless. Lennox and Sam had an involvement level of 8 after Mission City, given the guardian status of both Bumblebee and Ironhide.)

The difference between Charlie and Mikaela, however, was the amount of black-out in Charlie's file. If there had been anything more useful in the pages that filled the file, it was heavily redacted under a layer of ink, the remaining sparse info speckled here and there like the world's worst cipher code. The culprit was one Agent Burns, so signed at the bottom of one sheet authorising the classification of events.

Curiouser and curiouser.

The convoy approached the coordinates, and Lennox got his first look at where Charlie Watson was holed up.

And couldn't help but utter a soft, "whoa."

" _Somehow, I think she'll remember B-127,_ " Ironhide remarked through his radio with dry inflection.

"No kidding." Eyeing the hexagonal logo on the side of the building, Lennox reached for the CB, which tied into both NEST and Autobot frequencies, and hailed Optimus. "Hey, me and Sam are gonna take point, make sure there're no surprises. Hang back with Ratchet and the others."

" _Understood,_ " Optimus intoned, and the semi trailing behind them slowed to pull over to the curb, half-hidden by the tall privacy fence surrounding the property. The red and green ambulance on its heels pulled over as well, guarding the semi's road-side flank. Bumblebee chirruped over the line and rolled boldly forward, pulling neatly into the customer driveway in front of the garage's office.

Ironhide pulled in behind him, and Lennox grabbed the crutches Ratchet had provided him, careful of his knee as he exited the cab. The Topkick made a discontented rumble, but Major Lennox was the only member of NEST with the authority to make this contact. At least he'd managed to scrub the blood off his face; he'd have an impressive bruise come tomorrow, but he wouldn't be scaring small children.

"Your knee okay?" Sam asked as he leaned on Bumblebee's open door.

"Yeah, lets get this over with."

They entered the office - really, little more than a partitioned bit of the garage with a desk and shelving, through the half-cracked hanger doors. There was a man working at the desk, tall, dark skinned, and hair teased up into a bushy, sort of naturalistic pouf. He was focused intently on the computer as they entered, but glanced up at Sam's tentative, "uh, hello?" and smiled.

Lennox was quick to place the man's face, matching it to a second photograph in Charlie Watson's file, headed under 'incident adjacent' like Mikaela to Sam. He'd aged well into his late forties, with only a few laugh lines to show for it and not a trace of grey in his Afro.

"Good afternoon," he said pleasantly, "what can I do for you folks?" 

"Michael Morrison?" Lennox asked, purely for confirmation, and got an embarrassed nod as the man stood.

"Memo, please." He pronounced it _Mee-moh_ , which was a relief; Lennox had been puzzled over the mindset of someone using  _inter-office communications terminology_ as a nickname. " _Michael_ always makes me look for my mom."

"Mr. Morrison," Lennox compromised, politely shaking the man's hand. "I'm Major Lennox, and this is Sam Witwicky; we're looking for Ms. Watson."

At the title, Memo straightened, a glint of wariness in his eyes. At their goal, he paled, though it was subtle under his skin.

"W-why would you be looking for Charlie - I mean, Ms. Watson - I, er, _she's not here_."

As if on  _cue,_ something in the repair bay crashed to the ground in a cacophony of metal noise and a woman's voice swore.

Lennox raised an eyebrow at Morrison.

The man winced and then smiled, sharper. "Oh, _that_ Ms. Watson." There was an uncomfortable beat, and then he slapped the file he'd picked up down on the desk and loomed, as best he could against a trained US Army Ranger. "Look, if you guys are with Sector 7, we told you; we had nothing to do with Mission City and there's no alien fugitives hiding out in our damn junkyard. Leave Charlie alone. She's done nothing to earn this sort of harassment for _years_."

Lennox's eyebrows went higher. "We tell you we're looking for Ms. Watson, and your first thought is _aliens?_ "

Memo paused, and his face flushed a darker shade. "Oh." Another uncomfortable beat. "Never mind? Sorry, I watch a lot of sci-fi. And TV. Because it's important to keep on top of events. Like terrorist attacks. Not aliens. Cuz," a nervous laugh, "that'd be crazy. Aliens. Definitely don't exist."

 _He's a worse liar than Sam,_ Lennox marvelled, and coughed over a laugh. He glanced at Sam. Sam, on his part, looked amused at the irony, and apologetic, as he piped in, "Actually, we were having a bit of _car trouble_ , and were wondering if she had time to take a look."

Memo opened his mouth, but then his eyes strayed past them, through the open hanger door, and the start of a sentence became a slack-jawed, wide-eyed stare.

Sam and Lennox turned, to find Bumblebee had gotten impatient and rolled near-silently into the open space separating the repair bays from the open hanger doors. At Memo's attention, the Camero gave a cheeky ' _Neep-Neep'_ of his horn - uncharacteristically flat and tinny for the model the Autobot was mimicking - and his near-side mirror flicked in a wave, before he then rolled right on past into the repair bays.

Memo's mouth clicked shut with a swallow.

"Oh," he said faintly. " _That_ sort of car trouble."

Lennox gave the man a grimace of a smile, and clapped the man on the shoulder.

"Actually, that one I'm not too worried about. But, uh. Can't say the same for the others."

Memo's head snapped round to stare at the man in alarm. " _Others_."

"Yeah - can I ask you to come out back?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No radio credits for this chapter.
> 
> This snippet was meant to go straight into Charlie's reunion but hah, Memo wanted a say and I say he's right to.
> 
> Third snippet may be delayed a bit because I lost most of my braincells to a headcold. Oog.


	3. Chapter 3

Bumblebee resisted the urge to chuckle as he left Lennox and Sam to explain things to Memo. He’d have to go back and greet him properly, once Lennox had briefed him into the situation. But Memo was not the person Bee had expected to find when leading his team here, and that reunion would have to wait.

Bee had, perhaps, fibbed _slightly_ , telling Optimus he had only been keeping track of Charlie’s whereabouts.

There had been a period, back before the humans had caught on to the idea of an interconnected world network, when Bumblebee had kept himself off the grid completely. No contact, no visits, not even a morse code message; no reason to give the military or that hostile agency (Sector 7, Bee was to eventually learn, and be entirely unsurprised) a reason to suspect he was still on planet, let alone in the company of humans who knew he was more than just a flashy ride.

The _internet_ was a Primus-sent, if primitive, piece of home to wile away his time in hiding. If he’d had human tear ducts, he would’ve cried, if only for the reprieve from _boredom_ it provided.

And, for the _companionship_.

Nobody cared who you were, or were not, in the anonymity of a chat room. And while his nanites couldn’t repair his voice, there was nothing wrong with Bee’s ability to  _talk_ _._

(If the humans had made a few small technological leaps after chatting unknowingly with a lonely Cybertronian named _BmbleBuzz127_ in the coding forums, that was their business. Bee was not admitting to anything.)

So yes; the internet: _awesome._ And the advent of e-mail gave him a way to stay in contact with Charlie without putting her or Memo in danger, or getting them in trouble with Sector 7.

(Her joy and excitement the first time he’d sent her a message had been almost Cybertronian, with the palpable amount of emotion she could put into simple ascii-binary text.)

His last email had been months ago, and it had been Charlie who ordered radio silence. She suspected her computer had been bugged, and being that Sector 7 was up his aft ports again, it was probably true. The latest transmissions from his fellow inbound Autobots put Bee’s need to stay incognito under more pressing importance.

Then he’d gotten wind of the Allspark’s location, of Megatron’s (in hindsight, _blatantly obvious_ ) presence in the human’s far-too-rapidly evolving tech, and of the explorer Witwicky, who’d gone insane with the glyphs of Primus in his eyes. Everything had rapidly gone rust-welded from there, and he’d just...forgotten to check in with his oldest planet-bound friend. For months.

Now he was turning up on her driveway...with friends, without any warning. To ask for her help.

Boy, would Charlie be _surprised_.

 

With engine cut to silent, the _shtacshtacshtacshtack_ of Bumblebee's tires against the slightly-gritty, but well-swept garage floor, was the only noise made as the Autobot scout rolled his way into the repair bay. Even that, then, was drowned out by the music. The radio, which Bumblebee's sensors could see was perched on the workbench, was tuned to the local station for 70's/80's rock and the volume high enough that anyone in the repair bay was unlikely to hear anything, up to and including a Decepticon attack.

" _Don't you,_ " crooned the vocalist from the tinny, static speakers _,_ " _forget about me, no, don't, don't, don't, o-oh, don't you..._ "

 _Appropriate,_ thought Bumblebee with humor, and glided to a stop next to the only car in the bay, settling on his shocks. He let the music wash over him, the acoustic vibrations buzzing against his armour, and focused his sensors downward, to the sled and the body currently hip-deep from head-up in the undercarriage of a familiar cherry-red Corvette.

Bio-scan match: Charlie Wilson.

With a mischievous mental grin, he reached out to the radio receivers, and hijacked the frequency onto to his own transmitters.

 

The benefit of being chief mechanic of your own business, you got to know the feel of the place, and that included when someone crept in behind your back. Charlie had been wrestling with a stubbornly stuck bolt when she'd sensed the change in the air, the movement of a body through still space.

Even over the music, she knew someone had entered the building, and she paused in her work to indulge a feeling of suspicion. A glance down at her feet beyond the lip of the Corvette's chassis showed a new set of tires parked in the neighbouring repair bay.

Funny that she hadn't heard it pull in. She shrugged, and went back to attacking the bolt. "New customer, Memo?"

Memo didn't respond. Then again, the music _was_ somewhat loud.

And then the radio cut out, mid-way through insisting that the listener "- _recognise me? Call my name or walk on by..._ " -- and began playing a sappy, soothing number that involved a great deal of flugelhorn.

Charlie grit her teeth and threw new effort into loosening the bolt, unwilling to give up just yet. "If that's Steve messing with my music, you better change it back or else this wrench is finding a new home!"

...Except the only employees on staff today were herself and Memo. Charlie paused, the tension in her shoulders no longer just the unwanted interruption of Chuck Mangione.

The radio skipped again, and Sam Cooke warbled a heartfelt, " _Oh, my love, my darrrling-_ "

Goddamn pranks. She craned her neck, trying to maneuver her line of sight past the Corvette's tires, but couldn't see anybody's legs near the workbench if they were there. She exhaled a frustrated huff. "Is that you, Memo? You switch that back or so help me-"

Another burst of static, and the radio hiccuped over into Rick Astley's chipper, and thanks to social media the beloved anthem of _trolls_ , pledge that he was " _never gonna give you up, never gonna let you down!_ "

With an inarticulate growl of irritation, Charlie dropped the wrench to the concrete with a clang and shoved herself backwards out from under the Corvette. The stuck bolt could wait; she had a potential murder to commit - or at least s _omeone_ was looking for a punch in the nose.

Only, when she'd gotten clear of the Corvette and sat up, her attention was immediately riveted to the bright yellow, black-striped, concept Camero that had been innocently parked next to her. Any thought of retaliation fled, and her mouth dropped.

The radio gave an R2-D2-like electronic cackle, and cut out entirely. In the same instant, the Camero split apart, gears shifting and power humming as what once was a car, became a familiar face.

 

Bumblebee finished his transformation sequence, folding panels away into armour and stretching cables as he took advantage of the high ceiling with a whirr of satisfaction. His doorwings relaxed as he shook out the last of the battle-stiffness from his joints and dropped his optics, bright and blue, to rest on the human at his peds.

The woman’s face made its own transformation, a wild gasp of shock shifting to astonishment, to a beaming grin of delight, as Charlie scrambled to her feet.

“Bumblebee!”

:: **Charlie** :: The mech chirruped back in his own language, antennae perking up happily. The woman lurched forward, the Autobot knelt, and old friends embraced as gently as they had done the day they'd said goodbye.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ch3 Radio credits:  
> \- Don't you (forget about me) - song  
> \- flugelhorn - Feels So Good, Chuck Mangione (and a Doctor Strange ref, I'll admit)  
> \- oh my love - Unchained Melody, song  
> \- Rick Astley - duh  
> This chapter has been eaten twice and rewritten _three times_ , and that is why it is later than I wanted. Boo, hiss. It also tried to blow up; I wrangled it into submission for length, and the rest will wait for the next snippet.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For those waiting for Charlie-meets-the-bots, not quite there yet. Charlie and Bee had a bit more to say to eachother; believe me, I cut it down to keep it sane.

" _Charlie, good-time Charlie || hey pretty lady || I've been missing you,_ " the scout's radio sang, crackling with interference from the metal-works around them. E-mail and covert surveillance was no substitute for seeing her in person.

The young human he’d once known at 18 had changed, in the ways biological organisms did; Charlie was taller now, the signs of age bittersweet in laugh lines, curves, and the visible marks of a slower metabolism. But the arms that embraced around his neck cables were the same, soft, organic and warm.

"Oh. I've missed you too, Bee," the woman returned, cheek mushed against his face-plates, and pulled back to cup his face in calloused…. _greasy_ hands. “Gods, you haven’t changed a bit.”

He recoiled from the sensation with a squawk, and she let out an embarrassed cackle, grabbing a rag to wipe off her palms. “ _Neither || have || you,_ ” he pieced together, blending sound-clips smoothly to sound more or less like an actual spoken sentence as he took the rag to wipe sticky palm-prints off his metal, and then dropped it gently on her head like a hat with an amused chitter-click. " _It's good to || see you || Charlie._ "

"Hey!" she whipped it off and mock-glared at him; it was largely ineffectual given she could not stop smiling. “What the hell are you doing here, anyway? Not that I’m not pleased to see you. You haven’t messaged me in months and I’ve been _worried sick_.”

:: **Aw, Charlie** ::, Bee warbled an casual tonal shift, doorwings hitching up in what should have been an innocent posture. Only to wince, optics shuttering as a scraped cog shifted under his armour, tugging recently repaired cables.

His bright, observant friend didn’t miss it. The space between her eyebrows creased as a worried gaze flicked over what had been dismissed before; paint scratched and scraped and dusty, the popped dent-marks left behind by nanite repairs not yet complete, and - with an inarticulate sound of dismay, her hand darted out to brush the space at his hip-joint.

The feather-light touch tickled his sensors, as if afraid such a small thing could hurt him. He followed the trail, confused, until its placement and angle came together in his memory and - Oops. She’d found the welding Ratchet had done to reattach Bumblebee’s legs after the battle at Mission City. It wasn’t often he’d been that badly slagged, but between Megatron, the Allspark, and Jazz’s near-death experience, he’d almost forgotten the repair in the wake of everything else.

“You’re hurt.” It was not a question, and delivered with a gravity that could rival Ironhide at his best.

He didn’t have the energy to argue, and let his doorwings droop, the exhaustion plain in his stance. “ _Reports out of Mission City || terrorist attack || news at 11._ ”

“Mission City?” Charlie frowned. “Oh, uh, yeah; I saw the reports - well, what little the reporters could broadcast before the military put a censor gag on the nonsense and blamed it on….terrorists -- That was _you_?”

“ _Not alone || decept- || -cons || on the hunt._ ”

Charlie went white.

 

Even after 30 years, Charlie still remembered the visceral terror of the night they’d faced the Decepticons on the pier; being stalked by the military, having guns shoved in her face; Bee’s lifeless frame cold under her hands until perseverance and a whole lot of taser-guns rebooted his systems; dodging the brawl between Bee and the bipedal helicopter, debris missing her by scant inches and marvelling she wasn’t a smear on the pavement; the cold wind threatening to whip her off the radio tower as she faced down the hovering fighter jet, working rusty bolt cutters on their souped-up battery to stop the signal getting through.

It was this memory that made her alarm genuine, because all that chaos had been the work of just _two_ of the homicidal bots, and Charlie could absolutely do the maths and realise the name Decepti _cons - plural -_ meant there were probably _more_. “They’re _back?_ ”

“ _Gone, gone, gone || dust in the wind,”_ Bee was quick to reassure her, laying a hand on her shoulder as gently as a living robot the size of a house could do. “ _Sent them || packing._ ”

Relief flooded Charlie’s veins, and she leaned against the Corvette’s fender lest her knees wobble. “Thank god. But, wait -” and anger flooded her, as she did the maths again, and stared up at him accusingly. “Bee, that was _months ago._ ”

Bee cringed, looking away guiltily, and made a mournful croon.

“Is that why Sector 7 was sniffing around after so long,” she demanded, whacking his knee-plate with a hand. It didn’t do much but hurt her palm, but it did get his attention back. “Bee, did you come here just to hide?”

Bee’s antennae perked up and he crossed his wrists in a motion that accompanied Queen’s crescendo of “ _No, no, no, No, NO._ ”

Charlie wasn’t convinced. She pursed her lips in a serious manner, hands on her hips as she looked up at him. “Bee, you _know_ I’m still under surveillance. I told you those xenophobic thugs tried to trash the joint last time I got an e-mail from you.” Bee made a disgruntled _blatt_ sound, but Charlie wasn’t done. “Sector 7 is still _hunting_ you, Bee,” she insisted. “This _isn’t_ a safe harbour.”

“ _The Men In Black || ain't never gon' be president now,_ " Bee told her, firmly, mirroring her pose with hands on his hips. “* _Dun-dun-dun*, another one bites the dust._ ”

“They’re not after you anymore?” He shook his head, and while that was a relief, she still narrowed her eyes in suspicion. “How come?”

“ _Reports out of Mission City,_ ” the newscaster’s voice repeated, as he pointed a finger at her. “ _I get by with a little help from my friends._ ”

“What, me?” Dubious.

Another shake of his head, and the pointing finger moved to the doors outside. “ _Message from Starfleet, Cap’n || Houston, we have touchdown._ ”

And Charlie had to catch herself again, because she remembered that Bee had been waiting for this, for over 30 years. “You mean they finally answered your transmission?”

Bee gave an affirmative chirp and stepped back, his frame collapsing and shifting until the concept Camero once again sat in her repair bay. The window rolled down, and from the radio, static crackled. “ _Charlie, good time Charlie || a little help || my friends || please?_ ”

Charlie exhaled heavily. Right. Well, if Bee’s friends were in bad a shape as the bot in front of her, a mechanic was probably the closest they could get to a medic.

“Of course, Bee. Show me.”

Bee’s horn gave a tinny double-beep that sounded like a victory cheer, and the Camero rolled forward at an uncomfortable speed from the garage, skidding a little as it cornered into the garage driveway.

Charlie followed, and hoped whatever faith Bee had in her skills, it wasn’t misplaced.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ch 3 radio credits:  
> \- good time charlie: charlie the lonesome cougar  
> \- pretty lady: Sold, song  
> \- missing you: song, the independents  
> \- on the hunt: song, hungry like the wolf  
> \- gone, gone: song, johnny mathis  
> \- dust in the wind: song  
> \- no, no, no: Queen  
> \- Men in Black: song, will smith  
> \- president: OBLIGATORY HAMILTON QUOTE  
> \- bites the dust: song  
> \- help from my friends: song, the Beatles  
> \- Starfleet: Star Trek  
> \- Houston: NASA


End file.
